Roses in the Dark
by Illa Darling
Summary: They thought they would live happily ever after. When Eponine disappears, Enjolras must return to Paris, where dark memories wait with open arms. But he never knew he would have to face Ponine's soft, brown eyes, dark and vacant as they looked up him... Eponine must battle her past once more, and the Friends face the chance of eternal separation in one chaotic nightmare.
1. A Wedding And Its Reception

**This is the first time I've begun a lesMis fic while still writing another. I apologize for that, but this plot wouldn't stop bugging me so here it is! I hope you enjoy and the other story will still be finished! :D (Part two of "The Rose's Light")**

Chapter One

The continuation of this story begins with a white wedding. All of Digne was in an uproar, for this grand event was none other than the union of Monsieur Enjolras and mademoiselle Eponine, a celebrated couple loved by the poor, respected by the wealthy. And what a blessed day for a wedding! Larks soared in milky white clouds and bright blue skies, clear as the clearest lake, without a single threat of rain.

But the tears would fall soon enough.

The church looked lovely too—a humble little House with its own stained glass windows, the sun streaming through with such joy that it seemed even he felt pleased with the marriage and wished to grant his good will. Pews were filled—gaunt, dirty faces turned beautiful as they waited for "the kind Monsieur and his lady", for Enjolras had found a better approach to aiding the miserable; and the rich ladies and gentlemen squirmed about impatiently to get a glimpse of the lucky bride.

But they would have to wait for a long time.

Monsieur Enjolras himself showed no signs of impatience or fear or even doubt. Perhaps he fidgeted more than was natural for him; but those steady blue eyes looked on with proud assurance; those straight lips curved up into a slight smile, hinting at the joy that already radiated from his entire being. Such a smile, miniscule though it was, altered the generally cold features that were habitual to him—and the fortunate few to whom it was bestowed, wished him all the happiness in the world.

But that smile vanished as soon as it had come and would not appear for a long time. For suddenly the large, wooden door opened with such force that the guests jumped from their seats with surprise and turned to look, expecting to see a lovely bride and finding—much to their astonishment and the groom's dismay—a panting, disheveled Monsieur Grantaire.

In he came, with words like fire, sparks trailing behind:

"She's gone!"

A sudden burst of murmurs arose from the onlookers, rising into the air like the tremendous roar of a waterfall. "Mademoiselle Eponine, gone?" "Good, dear mademoiselle Eponine?" "Poor Monsieur!"

Poor Monsieur indeed! Enjolras looked as though his castle in the cloud was tumbling down before him. Gathering his wits together, he hurried to Grantaire on the carpet that his lady should have trod. He couldn't help thinking of it. Eponine, gone? Eponine, brave 'Ponine of the barricades, fleeing this battle ground?

"Grantaire, what's happened?"

The young man, already miserable, turned wretched. "I waited by her door, Enjolras, like a faithful dog, just as you said! I waited an extra bit of time, since I knew women take a while getting fixed up! But when I knocked, she didn't answer, and when I finally broke down the door, she wasn't there!"

"Did you check the window? Did you look for her? She can't have gone far!"

With a silent nod, Grantaire rushed away to gather help and search for the vanished bride. Many eyes searched that night, but it was all in vain. A young woman in wedding array could not have walked so quickly, so quietly! But Eponine was gone.

"Enjolras?"

"Well?"

"We've searched almost all Toulon."

"And?"

"Enjolras, we… we found her."

He turned on them, his eyes ablaze with hope, not daring to speak.

"Enjolras." Combeferre uttered the word and could go no further. When Enjolras looked to Grantaire, that young man's courage shattered and a shower of tears trickled down his cold cheeks. His trembling lips parted, as though to speak, but not a single word came out. At last, poor Etienne, the well-hardened National Guard, found his voice, choked out the words:

"Monsieur, we found the body."

Enjolras turned away, letting the dark shadows fall over his face.

Painful though it was, Etienne felt he had to continue, "An old man came to us and said he found the girl we'd been looking for. Enjolras, will you not come and… and bury her?"

At the last two words, Grantaire wept unashamedly, and even Combeferre turned away, unable to bear the sight of Enjolras' face—such pain in those blue eyes! such anguish in the one, glistening tear that escaped from his cold barriers.

"Let me be," he managed.

"Enjolras—"

"_I tell you, let me be!_" he cried, flinging himself further into the darkness, trembling in every limb.

He did not hear the door close silently, nor see the wretched faces of his dear friends. He simply sat in his chair, remembering the time when his eyes had lost their sight, when his heart had closed into icy stone. But there had always been a hand to help him up. A quiet, comforting voice at his side, telling him she was there. But she wasn't. She was gone.

Enjolras did not have a very romantic mind, and soliloquies found no place in his heart. But in his mind flew tortured thoughts, in his mind were feelings that could not be expressed with words—there are some kinds of grief that cannot be spoken.

"_Enjolras!_"

At the haunting sound he uttered a cry, for the voice was dear to him. When his eye fell upon her, the little minx smiled and laughed. He shivered and cried out, "Eponine!" With trembling fingers, he clutched at the white gown she still wore, but the pearly silk dissolved in his hands and she was free again, smiling and laughing.

"Eponine, Eponine, come back! Don't leave me," he begged, falling on his knees, caring for nothing else but to feel her hand on his shoulder, to hear her voice saying, '_Here I am!_'

"Why have you gone somewhere I cannot follow?! Why have you gone where I cannot… I cannot…" At last he broke down, freeing his tears, letting them run down his cheek like icy fire. Bending, covering his face with his hands, he wept.

How long he mourned he did not know, but after what seemed an eternity, he stood up, shaking but feeling subdued. "What blow can hurt me now?" he murmured.

What blow _can_ hurt a man who has lost what was most dear to him? Enjolras thought nothing could hurt him—he was free from pain! But at that moment, Grantaire, his cheeks still wet with salty tears, burst into the room and cried out in a breathless voice,

"'Ponine's body! It's gone!"

…

While Grantaire's tears ran afresh and Enjolras stirred from his brooding, two very different men sat in a dirty, damp room, chatting nicely in the darkness.

One was very tall and lean, and in his frightening, gaunt face sat a pair of keen, round eyes that did not blink but looked steadily at the other man. What he wore could not clearly be seen in such obscurity, but in his arm he held a tall hat, and when he paced the floor, the heavy pound of boots echoed in the little room. His companion was a startling contrast to the imperturbable skeleton of a man. He was very small, rather stout, and had an unhealthy pallor.

"S'very nice of you to come n' talk," the little man was saying. "'Parnasse's on his way, like I says. He'll be 'ere in a jiffy, Monsieur." In the darkness, he gave his companion a chilling grin lacking teeth.

"That's very good, Monsieur. And the girl?"

"Aye, she's a'comin'! Good girl, that 'un! Good little wench!" and his voice dripped with such malice that the praise was frightening!

The calm skeleton nodded satisfaction: "Very good. And you're certain she'll talk?"

"Aye, with some goadin', of course! Little 'uns always need a good spankin' before they'll talk!"

"And, ahem, 'spanking' will work for this one?"

Here the other man hesitated. "Ah, well, she ain't going ta squeal that easy, Monsieur. I suggest a sweet little threat! Jus' leave it all wi' me, Monsieur! I'll take care of it real good!"

His companion turned to go, but the small man laid his hand on his shoulder to stop him. In that instant, the little man felt something hard and cold pressed against his head, and the skeleton hissed: "Don't touch me with your filthy hands! This is simply business, Monsieur! Do not forget your place."

"Yes, of course, your Honor," whimpered the other, "I jus' wanted to make sure you… ah, you'll not forget our deal?"

"I gave you my word."

"Yes! Good! All right, Monsieur. Thanky very much!" But the little man was talking to the darkness, for the skeleton had already gone.


	2. Eponine And What Became of Her

**Thank you very much for the reviews! I've got my whole plot finished and ready to write! Hope you enjoy this chappie! :D **

Chapter Two

It was in that same dark, dank room that another conversation took place. It began several moments after the mysterious gentleman had departed. Left to his own devices, the stout, little fellow bustled about, re-arranging the scarce furniture with an air of impatience and muttering viciously, "Yes, your Honor? Yes, your Honor?! Why, it's honor this n' honor that! And to think he hasn't got a bit of flesh on those yeller bones! A man o' his position, wastin' food! The world would be better off without those meddlin' little—"

"Angry with the government, are we?"

The short man turned with a start, his heart leaping at the thought that perhaps the Skeleton had returned. Peering through the darkness, he saw the slender figure of a youth leaning elegantly on his little cane. "Curse you, 'Parnasse!" growled the little man, "You're late too, says my watch."

In the darkness, the young gentleman replied with some amusement: "Well! you're in a pleasant mood, Thenardier. I'm sure the former owner of that pocket watch was behind schedule, mind you. How does my tardy crime look beside your pretty act? Naughty little innkeeper, can't even keep yourself from picking a pocket! 'Tis your own fault for pinching a late watch! Can't blame others for your sins, my man." With that, he let out an affected sigh and pulled off his pearly gloves to reveal a pair of white, feminine hands.

"Don't you preach to me about sins!" spat the other, "Your hands have as much blood on 'em as mine! So have you got her?"

"You really are in a mood!" muttered the youth, "Very well then! Come along, Monsieur." But as Thenardier fell in behind him, the young man suddenly turned upon him and said, with a threatening glint in his eyes, "We've got a deal, remember?"

"Aye," returned the innkeeper, "I've got brains enough to recall!"

Montparnasse brought his patron to a dark, abandoned alley. "The police won't interrupt us here," he sniffed.

Thenardier laughed harshly. "Ha! And wot would you say if I told you my business has got to do with the police?"

The other man stopped short in surprise and grabbed the collars of his companion's coat. "You wouldn't work with the Skeleton!" he hissed, "If you so much as hint at my locations to the coppers, the deal's off! 'Fess! You working with them?"

"That be none of your business," replied Thenardier calmly, "Now let go of me n' hand over the girl."

In response, Montparnasse, after looking about him for a moment and feeling reassured, gave a low whistle and called out, "Spring time!"

A large shadow emerged from the darkness, holding in its arms the figure of a young woman. Laying the body on the cold floor, the shadow disappeared, leaving Thenardier and the young thief alone with the girl.

"Well? Didn't I hold my end?" said Montparnasse expectantly.

"Shut it!" growled Thenardier. "Be off with ya! and strut your airs somewhere else! I'll call when I need somethin'."

The other departed with a mutter and a swift glance at the pale face lying on the cold stone cobbles.

Thenardier approached the girl with trembling eagerness—though this affair was entirely business, the former innkeeper had not seen his daughter for many years. Something had changed since the last time—last time, she had been a thin, gaunt figure with hollow eyes that accused him more than any insults she could hurl; last time, she had been a sight that brought guilt into his heart, and such guilt that he could only rage at her. But now, what change! He saw something that reminded him of a pretty little girl, healthy and happy and content. He saw it in those pale yet full cheeks, in those cherry lips that smiled though she was asleep. She had been such a beautiful creature then, and now—his own little daughter—before the arrival of that cursed imposter and convict!

Had the young revolutionary done this to her? Taken such care of her? Thenardier trembled. Was it from guilt? But glancing once more at the sleeping girl, he was reminded that this was business! Business! He must get on with the business! And so he got from his pocket a little glass decanter from which he never drank, alcoholic or not, and poured its contents into the girl's mouth.

She woke up from her 'dead' slumber, coughing and choking.

"Well wench!" cried Thenardier, drawing back.

Her sleepy eyes focused, and as they did, she shivered. The girl could not help it—when had she last seen her father? felt his fist? heard his incoherent screams?

Thenardier saw it and smiled. "Awake, my dear? How'd you find the trip? Not dull, I hope! Of course, you were as senseless as a pretty li'l pig off to the butcher!"

His frightening simile did not seem to affect the girl, who had recovered from her surprise quickly. She did not need to look around to know where she was. "Thenardier!" she returned in a voice as vicious as him—even more so, perhaps, for the innkeeper released all his cruelty and malice, holding nothing back; but Eponine Thenardier's cruel calmness pierced her father's heart. It was a calmness that seemed to say, "Look! I care nothing for you! You were my past. That is all. Look! You cannot hurt me now."

"Why, address me as 'Papa', my dear!" he cried, feigning flippancy. "Am I not your father?"

Something returned into the girl's mind and as she remembered, her eyes glowed like embers. "Father?" she returned harshly, "Where was my father when our money failed us and we moved to the streets? Where was my father when I was forced to steal, forced to live the life of a criminal?" But the fire in her eyes glinted flames when she said, "Where was my father on my wedding day?"

"Wedding day?" replied Thenardier innocently. "Why, dearest Eponine, my heartiest congratulations!"

"Why have you brought me here, Thenardier?" she cried, ignoring his counterfeit smiles.

"Why surely! To see my dear, sweet, precious li'l daughter again!"

"What do you want?"

"To see you."

"I don't believe you."

"I wanted to see you and… to know how you've been! So who's the lucky man that's won me girl's heart, eh? And friends? Do you have any friends?"

"What's that to you?" snapped the girl, noting the sudden carelessness in her father's voice that meant he was beginning 'business'. "If you wanted to have a little chit-chat with your dear, sweet, precious little daughter, then why are my hands tied?"

Thenardier growled softly. "Look here, jade! You'll answer your papa's questions or—"

"Or what? Are you going to threaten me again? There's nothing you can do."

The beast chuckled. "Well, let's just say I've promised Montparnasse a small reward for his services."

…

"Enjolras, please. We're not getting anywhere."

Enjolras, bent with weariness, glanced at his companions. Combeferre sat on a chair nearby; tired lines altered the happy, contented face that had become habitual to the philosopher since his marriage to Marguerite Gregoire. Grantaire had found a comfortable place to stretch his long limbs at the doorway, leaning on the wall and looking very miserable. Without a word, Enjolras turned back to his desk, over which was spread a large map of Digne and its surrounding cities.

"She can't have gone far!" he insisted, running his fingers through tangled locks. "She can't have gone…"

With a deep sigh, Combeferre stood up: "Mon ami, we understand what you are going through. Depression, denial—after all, what can we expect? It's only been two days since her… since the… event." He paused, steadied his voice. "Enjolras, we loved Eponine too. But to deny that she's dead? It's a cold, wretched truth but it's true: Eponine is _gone_.

"I am being the loyal friend, Enjolras. That is all."

"And so am I," said Grantaire, standing up suddenly, "Eponine was the only person who ever understood me. Me! The drunk cynic! Your love for Eponine greatly surpasses mine, but I loved her nonetheless—the sister and mother I never had. Did you ever think that you're being selfish to think she isn't… gone?"

"Yes!" cried Enjolras, rising from his stance, "Yes, I am selfish! I'm arrogant, conceited, and selfish! I can't live without her! I once lived as a blind man, I can live as a poor man, but I cannot live without Eponine Thenardier—for with her, I was a blind man who found light. With her, I was a penniless man with the wealth of the gods!"

He collapsed into his chair. "You've done so much for me already, my friends. I can ask no more of you. But _she _isn't dead—I know it! Think about this, Combeferre! Who would want to murder Eponine Thenardier on the day of her wedding?"

"A jealous woman?" offered Grantaire simply.

The wretched groom let out an exasperated groan. "Digne has offered its services to me, Grantaire. They loved Eponine."

"Perhaps they loved Eponine. But what of Eponine _Thenardier_?" said Combeferre gravely. A sudden thought passed his mind and he sat down again, explaining slowly as though to himself, "None of Digne knew Eponine's heritage. We came here unknown, spotless! Digne is not to blame—"

Realization dawned upon the three men. "Yes, yes!" cried Grantaire eagerly, "Not someone from the village—"

"But someone who knew Eponine _Thenardier_!" finished Combeferre triumphantly. "Well Enjolras?"

The solemn statue pressed his fist onto his forehead, trying to drive this new information into his head. Suddenly he looked up: "That old man… the man who found Eponine… what did he look like?"

Both men hesitated.

"He… his face was covered," spoke up Grantaire, "But how could we have noticed? Enjolras, we were mourning. We thought Eponine was dead!"

"Yes, but she's not," returned the other solemnly, "I'm going to get my 'Ponine back, and that man is my key to finding her!"


	3. Past Memories Come Alive

Chapter Three

_He loved the morning. Every day, when the golden shower of light poured down through the windows, he'd open his eyes and let the morning sun warm his stiff, sleeping body. Every day, he'd take an early stroll, leaving the door of his little cabin unlocked—for who could rob Monsieur Enjolras of his happiness? M. Combeferre owned a beautiful property in Digne, a place filled with so many orchards and fields that it felt like the country. Here Enjolras would take his walk, with his hands behind his back, breathing in the fresh air. _

_And waiting. _

_For it was not only the glories of the morning that made him love this time of day. It was not only the fresh breeze that cooled his cheeks, nor the cheerful chirping of the birds, nor even the rustling sound of the creeping firs as the wind swept by. He would listen to these sounds—the birds, the beasts, the creaking—and then the joyful call:_

"_Enjolras!" _

_This was what made M. Enjolras love the mornings with all his heart. To him, that sweet, eager voice was the best sound in the grove. To him, the gentle, loving touch of a hand holding his was the better than the wind cooling his cheek or the flowers caressing his finger. _

"_How is your walk going along?" she said, also clasping her hands behind her back as they walked side by side. _

"_Better now," returned the other, smiling slightly. "I found these for you," and he held out the bouquet of blooming wildflowers that he had kept hidden behind him. "You must cherish them, though, for I've had to go through the pain of prickles." _

_She laughed, taking them in her hands and inhaling deeply. "I'd have liked to see that! But then," she paused thoughtfully, "wouldn't you say that love has many thorns and thistles?" _

"_I know roses do," he replied slyly, the hint of a smile returning. _

"_Enjolras!" she laughed reproachfully, pushing him away, "You're worse than Gavroche, you know." _

"_The best praise a woman could give a man is the comparison between him and her own dear brother," Enjolras returned. He stopped walking then, as he always did when they arrived at the little field of thorny roses; yet the thorns were so small and the roses such a lovely shade of red that the couple hardly minded getting pricked by a few thistles. _

" _I suppose you're right," he continued. "I've been pricked by Cupid—/ Or should I say, 'A Rose'?/ For thistles scratch and prickles scrape/ But I don't care for those!" _

_It was a pretty, romantic, rather nonsensical poem; but, being recited by the prosaic Enjolras, Eponine couldn't help laughing out loud. "You… you're worse than… than Marius!" _

_Enjolras chuckled. "Well I must admit, I didn't write it."_

"_Who then?"_

"_Grantaire, actually. Composed a poem and ordered me to memorize it by rote, just like him."_

"_By rote, hmm? That accounts for your mechanical delivery!" laughed Eponine. _

_Then they would talk and laugh and talk again, never minding the hours that flew by, only knowing that as hours passed their wedding day drew nearer. Never had any other soul seen Enjolras talk so happily, laugh so merrily, smile so earnestly. _

_He loved the morning. _

Enjolras shivered. He'd woken up this morning and forgotten all about the past events—the wedding, Eponine's disappearance. He'd simply stood up and decided to take his morning stroll in Combeferre's gardens. But when he had arrived at the spot and waited for his Rose, he'd realized that she would not come.

And involuntarily, he shivered. _He would have to look for that old man… _Lost in his thoughts, Enjolras wandered around the gardens until he reached an apple orchard that Combeferre's house overlooked. _Paris. That would be the first place to look… _

"_Is that the sound of shears?" _he thought absently, his eyes following from bottom to top a ladder that stood leaning on the slender trunk of an apple tree. What he saw was a broad-shouldered, robust person cutting away at the leaves, paying no heed to the fresh fruit that fell with a plunk! to the soil below; the man—was he a gardener?—stood with his back towards Enjolras, so that his face was covered by the leaves.

"Monsieur?" inquired Enjolras.

The man took no notice of him.

He said again: "My good fellow, are you Monsieur Combeferre's gardener?" But the person would not turn. Seized with sudden annoyance, as well as a great curiosity to see the face of this strange man, Enjolras reached for the man's coat and pulled.

The result was a great crash! as the ladder swayed unsteadily and then fell, leaving the gardener hanging onto a branch and screaming furious curses. He dangled there for a moment, measuring the distance between his suspended feet and the soil below. And then with a thud, he was on the ground and fleeing as if the devil were at his heels!

With a shout, Enjolras rushed after him, and the one chased the other like a cat and a mouse… except this mouse had particularly long legs and no intention of getting eaten. Enjolras, strong and powerful Enjolras, seemed to have met his match, as his breath came short and his prey refused to slow his pace. With a last desperate effort, the stubborn statue reached out and caught hold of the running man's sleeve, the sudden jolt causing both men to stumble.

"You… will… stop!" declared Enjolras between gasps, tightening his hold and forcing the man up. The man raised his eyes to meet with haughtiness those of his captor, but as Enjolras gazed at his defeated enemy, he choked, and the look of disgust was immediately replaced with one of pale astonishment. "You!"

It was a familiar face—the face of a thief, con, and murderer. It was, in fact, Claquesous.

"But… you're dead! I've dealt judgment!"

Le Cabuc laughed like a drunkard: "You remember my face, comrade? Monsieur, I am flattered!"

"You should be dead!" said Enjolras, in a daze.

"So should you be!" rejoined the other. He laughed, yet his face was pale, perhaps from fear of a past incident—fear of the man who 'killed' him—and he struggled against his captor's iron grasp. "But I remember you too well, Monsieur, for you've left me a keepsake!" and with these heated words the ventriloquist bared his breast, revealing the mark of a bullet on his left shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Enjolras.

"I am but a gardener, Monsieur—"

"No!"

"—a humble thief who has reformed his evil ways."

The young man hesitated, then said, determined: "Monsieur Combeferre will know the truth."

…

Few things can frighten a Thenardier. After all, what can scare the human who has seen all, known all, suffered all? A Thenardier endures poverty with the patience of a saint; a Thenardier tolerates prison—and such a word evokes _pain_—without batting an eye; a Thenardier laughs at the mention of torture.

What frightens a Thenardier?

They care not for their own safety—but what about the safety of others? They care not for physical injury—but what about the torment of their hearts?

_He can't hurt me. Enjolras is safe. As are the others. He can't hurt me. _

But then, the cunning dog had returned: "I've promised Montparnasse a small reward for his services."

_Montparnasse. _The name still made her shiver, though there was no wind, and at the very sound her heart wrenched with hatred. "What of him?" she whispered through clenched teeth, now beginning to struggle against the ropes that held her down.

He laughed.

"What of him, Thenardier!"

"I've given you to him," replied the other simply, "Once you've satisfied my questions, you belong to him."

Eponine listened, stricken with horror. Her, belong to _him?! Never! Never, never, never! _

"He's a jealous creature, you know," continued the little man cruelly, "Couldn't bear to see you marryin' that other fellow! Ha! I still see that face o' his, lookin' as if he was about to choke when he heard that you was givin' yourself to that rebel! So he asked me for your hand, and seein' as he was a much better match for ya, I said yes!"

Unmoving, Eponine uttered a resolute, "Never! You can't force me. I won't!"

Thenardier smiled, yielding a shudder from his victim. "Ah, my precious li'l wench! You listen to me very carefully, girl! Thenardier always gives his word—"

"Your word means nothing!" cried Eponine, wriggling her bound wrists violently until the blood trickled down freely.

"Exactly, my dear! My word means nothin' to me. I gave 'Parnasse nothin' but my word, and that means nothin'! Do you see where I'm headin', my girl? You tell me all I need to know, and Montparnasse won't get his prize!"

"Your word means nothing, Thenardier," murmured Eponine.

Something softened in that brutal face, if such a thing were possible. Perhaps a man's soul can never truly ebb away. No matter how small and fragile it was, it still existed in Thenardier—the innkeeper, the thief, the husband… the father. Was it because of the daughter who sat before him? Was it because of a memory of that little child he used to adore? No matter. When Thenardier—sly, cruel, backstabbing Thenardier—said the words, Eponine believed him:

"I give you my pledge. As a father to his daughter, I give you my pledge. Eponine, look at what's left of this man. I have no honor left, save that of a father, and that honor I hold to."

"What do you want?"

The smile widened, showing a golden tooth: "Information. Information, my dear, is wot all men of my field want."

"All you want is money," returned Eponine bitterly, "Information in return for money, isn't it? Let me speak to the man you're working for!"

Thenardier bowed: "If that's what you want, my girl, that's what you'll get!"

They remained in the dark alley, the father standing, the daughter resting on the cold pavement and continuing to struggle against her binds. Then she thought she heard something and paused to listen.

The skeleton of a man appeared in his shiny black boots and tall hat: "Good evening, mademoiselle. Or shall I call you Madame Enjolras?"

"Who are you!"

"Forgive me. My name is Inspector Grand Gervais. These,"—he turned to Thenardier with a singular expression of disgust—"_swindlers_ know me as Le Squelette." He laughed. Eponine shivered. "It fits me well, I think."

"What do you want?" said the girl, knowing full well that the insurgents of the June Rebellion were pardoned by the King. She clung to this knowledge.

"Have no fear, mademoiselle. This has nothing to do with you or your Monsieur Enjolras. I need information about Monsieur Combeferre. You know him, I presume?"

"What if I do?"

"You will tell me all I need to know about this man."

"Why?" cried Eponine, growing pale and confused. "He hasn't done anything! Why do you want him?"

"Why? Oh, I'm sorry! I haven't told you, have I? One of my spies is at his estate, as we speak, watching every move he makes, every sort of person who visits him. Why do I want him? Well, your good friend, Monsieur Combeferre, is guilty of the murder of a high official, Inspector Javert."

**Ta-da! Don't worry. Enjolras is coming to rescue his 'Ponine! :D "Le Squelette" = the French for "The Skeleton"—and a less corny version of it at that! (My brother was reading this chapter and commented decidedly that "The Skeleton" is much to clichéd.) Anyway, hope you enjoyed! **


	4. A World in Chaos

**Hey everybody! Here's another chapter! Thanks for the reviews and hope you enjoy! **

Chapter Four

For one who seemed so soft-spoken, so peaceful and innocent, M. Combeferre had lived a life far out of the ordinary. To tell a citizen of Digne that this reserved gentleman had been a key leader in the June rebellion, that he had been a wanted lawbreaker on the run, would be condemning oneself as a liar and a fraud. For who would believe that gentle, young Combeferre, with his kind heart and generous hand, had begun a violent uprising?

If one saw Monsieur Combeferre that morning, during M. Enjolras' chase with Le Cabuc, he would certainly have reprimanded the person insolent enough to accuse this soft-spoken man.

The gentleman sat in the dining room, smiling and listening to his merry wife as he ate his breakfast. The happy couple had, for a moment, forgotten the troubles of their friends—and who could blame them? There must be some happiness in a day! Young, pretty Madame Combeferre had a cheerful disposition and tended to look at the brighter side of events.

She was saying then, "We will find her, won't we? Do you know, that old man who found Eponine didn't strike me as being very old at all."

"Didn't he, my Margot?"

"No. Now that I think of it, we didn't see his face at all! He wore a mask, remember? We thought he was old because of his voice!"

"_And that's because he's a ventriloquist!_"

Enjolras stood by the door, a triumphant yet rather despairing expression on his face. He held the 'old man' by the collar of his coat. "This is the man!" he declared.

Combeferre paled and stood up: "Isn't that…"

"Yes. Le Cabuc, our old friend. You remember _everything_ then?" and Enjolras glanced quickly at his friend.

"Yes," returned the other quietly, looking him full in the eye with a singular expression of somberness mixed with sympathy. "I remember everything."

"Then you remember that this man is supposed to be dead. But here he is now. I found him in the gardens, Combeferre. He claims to be your gardener. Is this true?"

Combeferre looked astonished: "If I say no, what will happen to the man?"

Enjolras hesitated. An imposter would be punished severely in Digne. After all, a man would be sentenced to five, agonizing years in prison for stealing a single loaf of bread—what more breaking into a wealthy gentleman's home with the chances of stealing more than just food? Surely he must turn him in! And yet… did he have the right to pass judgment once again upon a man he had tried to kill? Enjolras shuddered inwardly. He remembered pointing the gun… pressing the trigger… Could he do it again?

"_Kneel!" cried the angel, powerful and mighty, the flag of justice swaying behind him. "You will face judgment!" _

_The murderer begged for mercy, his cries mixed with inarticulate oaths. But the youth who stood before him, death in his hands and justice on his stern brow, paid no heed. He pointed the rifle, did not hesitate. But then… once the deed was done, he looked up and saw Eponine's face, pale with horror. Her eyes met his gaze and quickly lowered, letting her cap cover her face. Then she was gone. All he could remember for days was the dead murderer, pleading mercy… and Eponine's face, full of disappointment and shock… _

Enjolras hesitated. But he couldn't have answered anyway, for suddenly a loud banging rapped the door and a great voice cried: "Open this door! Monsieur Combeferre! You must open this door and come with us, in the name of the King!"

Every soul in the room trembled with sudden fear and bewilderment, every soul save Claquesous, the shadow, the spy. He laughed: "Ah! You are hopeless now, Messieurs! Surely you wish we had never crossed paths!"

Combeferre was the first to stir from his shock. "Enjolras," he said, his voice unsteady and his face pale, "Enjolras, take Marguerite and go to Paris! Quick! You must warn Etienne!"

"What!? Combeferre, I don't understand!"

"Take Margot!" thundered Combeferre, pushing Enjolras away in an act of despair, "Go! Quickly! They suspect me of something… Etienne… he helped me… they might bring him into this…"

"I don't understand!" cried Enjolras.

"I don't either, but please! Take care of Margot. Find Eponine and Etienne. Go!" With that, Combeferre pushed them to a dark corridor leading to the back door, out of which the gardens spread.

He shut the door on them, prepared to face his captors, leaving Enjolras and the weeping Marguerite alone in the orchard.

…

Meanwhile, Eponine was facing the horror of Combeferre's sentence.

"I don't believe you!" she cried, shaking her head in denial.

"Mademoiselle Eponine," said the Inspector coolly, "I admire your courage but this is bordering obstinacy. I have set the facts neatly before you. A witness was there the very night the Inspector died, and this witness tells us he saw a man who bore the marks of an uprising—a bullet wound on the right shoulder—and it was this man who walked the length of the Seine, found the Inspector, and drowned him. But you are not convinced, mademoiselle? Well! Listen! Our informant also brought us a letter. Would you like to read it?"

All the while the Inspector had been pacing the floor, his hands held calmly behind him. But as he ended he stopped and leaned menacingly toward the bound prisoner, like a hunting wolf preparing itself for the final pounce. He did not wait for an answer; his hand went to his coat and held out a folded paper, yellow and faded.

"La! But your hands are tied!" exclaimed the Inspector with a laugh, "You cannot read it! Very well. Allow me, dear mademoiselle. It reads:

"_To those who have survived this difficult time: _

_"Listen and learn. I have discovered a most wonderful truth. We are free. I had only to do one little thing, and thus free myself of my sentence, my judgment. And you are free too! We are all liberated from our crimes by this one little thing!" _

"Do you understand now? One little thing means murder—the murder of Javert. And this 'one little thing' has 'freed' the insurgents. Ha!

"Look!It is written very badly, isn't it? Very much like the hand-writing of a scared man on the run—a man 'condemned as a traitor'—doesn't it? But here! This is the final blow, mademoiselle! The letter was signed! What an _imbecile! _To sign his name on a letter that condemns him as a murderer! But here: the letter was signed _M.C._" Le Squelette fixed upon the girl an ugly smile: "_Monsieur Combeferre."_

"This is mad!" exclaimed Eponine furiously, a horrified expression on her face, "You yourself have said it! What man would do such a thing! No one! No one would be such a fool! And especially not Combeferre! Monsieur Inspector, if you only meet the man, see how gentle, how intelligent he is!"

It seemed as though the Inspector truly would consider her words. He stood back, rubbing his chin in deep thought. Thenardier, seeing that Le Squelette was actually considering, felt a sudden panic that perhaps the Inspector would not pay him any longer—that poor, poor Thenardier would lose his rightful money, and all because… because… because of his own little girl! Thinking thus, the little innkeeper stepped forward and, casting a threatening glare upon his daughter, landed a hard blow across her face. "Respect your superiors, girl!" he snapped, as his fist struck her cheek.

Eponine fell with a crash on the floor, clenching her jaws. But she had not felt such a blow in months, and a little whimper escaped her lips, which were now redder than rouge. She remained in that position, crouched upon the floor, her back towards her captor, and let a cool wind comfort her burning cheek.

And with the breeze came a voice like a whisper: "Eponine."

Eponine Thenardier was wiser, or perhaps more experienced, than most girls, who would've started, shown surprise, and answered the calling voice. But Eponine kept silent, only slightly bending further towards the wall and affecting to lean upon its cold stones. A hand stole through a hole in that wall and pressed her own with comforting warmth, and then it was gone, leaving a letter in her hands.

Eponine pretended to moan, to see if her captors were watching her closely, but her father and the Inspector did not notice her. Was it fortune? Was it God? But at that moment, Thenardier was arguing about his wages to Le Squelette, and the two of them paid no heed to their injured prisoner.

Seizing this moment, Eponine looked at the letter, recognized the hand. It read in sloppy scribbles the words:

_Wil find help. Azelma. _

These four words, despite their poor, pathetic appearance, filled Eponine with hope. If only 'Zelma would find Enjolras and lead him here—Enjolras. The thought immediately warmed her like sunshine. Yes, he would find her. This sudden hope gave new strength to her stiff, tired limbs, and she twisted her wrists around quietly, as not to attract attention. The blood, like precious oil, made the ropes slippery. Perhaps her hands could slip out… perhaps… if she tried hard enough…

…

While Eponine struggled to free herself, Azelma, like a faithful sister, was running as fast as her bare feet could take her. She knew Montparnasse was part of this plan—and despite her faithful love for the handsome youth, her love for Eponine surpassed this and everything else, for Eponine had been family to Gavroche and her. _'Ponine was her father, mother, provider, protector. She had been the mother who provided her with care and lavished her with love—the father who protected her from harm and kept her from starvation. _

So she ran, quick and quiet as a mouse, to Montparnasse's hiding place, ready to soak up like a sponge all the information that would be useful to her captive sister.

It was a little, decrepit building—simply a reflection of the poor houses of Paris. Azelma crept inside and heard these angry, passionate words that were so rare of Montparnasse:

"The _imbecile!_ It should not take this long! The backstabbing little liar!"

"Calm down," rejoined another voice, unfamiliar to Azelma's ears, "Thenardier won't keep his word. You know that, don't you? Ha! Ha! You didn't think it, did you? For the first time in years you actually believed that he would give the girl to you!"

At the mention of a 'girl', which certainly referred to Eponine, Azlema stiffened; she knew she could not hide that long; Montparnasse had eyes and ears as keen as a fox. Deciding which course she would take, the young Thenardier stepped forward noisily and called out, "'Parnasse! Are you home, dear?"

There was a sudden silence, and then, "Aye," came the smooth, indifferent response. "You're not needed. Get!"

"'Parnasse, dear, let me sit here and rest my tired feet. My father ain't home, you know that. Let me rest here." It was then, when the girl moved forward in the dark room and her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, that she saw the other man Montparnasse was speaking to. He looked familiar, but she did not remember him.

This man, when he heard the girl's words, glanced from her to Montparnasse with a hostile, suspicious expression; but Montparnasse shrugged and muttered: "Don't mind the wench. She won't leak a thing. But when did you arrive?" he continued. "Did you see _him_?" And he spat out the word with such contempt that Azelma had to keep herself from looking up. Instead, she felt the stranger's suspicious eyes upon her and she drooped her head, affecting boredom.

Slowly, the man withdrew his gaze and replied: "I came only a few hours ago. I saw him alright. What do you think?! I would've gut him through if I had the chance, but he made a run for it before I could get at him—I've got the other one, though. Brought him to the coppers. Listen, my business is with that other man! Leave him out of your schemes, Montparnasse. He's _mine_!"

A low chuckle came from the other side of the table where the two men sat: "Oh, you can deal with him, alright! It's the girl I want! And we both want that Monsieur Enjolras out of the picture!"

"How exactly are we going to do that?" rejoined the placid companion.

Montparnasse leaned forward with a feverish glint of the eyes, "Do something! Anything! Get him involved in the case, if you have to! Enjolras was also a rebel like the other one! He's guilty too! I'll see him hanged, I will!"

"The case has nothing to do with him," said the other with a shrug, "Le Squelette wants to avenge the late Inspector. He don't care a wit whether a man took part in the uprising or not."

"Do you want Enjolras dead or not, Claquesous?!" raged the young thief, banging his fists on the table, "You framed one, you can frame the other! I'll see the both of them hanged up on my wall!"

At this point, Azelma stood up and, affecting a yawn, said sleepily, "I'm leaving, 'Parnasse."

"No, you're not!" rejoined the other heatedly. "Sit down!"

A moment of panic seized Azelma, but calming herself, she thought of another way to escape. After a pause, she said cleverly, "'Parnasse, won't you tell that man to leave and come talk with me? I'm so lonely, I am. Papa's gone and so's maman. Come, 'Parnasse, you love me, don't you?"

This did it. "Get out!" said Montparnasse with disgust and a sudden change of mind, "Get out of here! We don't want you."

Relieved, Azelma stood up slowly, not wanting to look like she was in a hurry, but once she was safely outside, she sped away like the wind, crashed into an unfortunate young man… and found herself face to face with a pair of astonished blue eyes.


	5. Ghosts of a Hated History

**Hiya everybody! Here's the next chapter. I actually changed something in the previous chapter: I altered the letter supposedly written by Combeferre. Don't want to give a gargantuan spoiler, but I'll simply hint that the (updated) letter will be significant during the coming court scene, so you might want to take a peek back at that section! Anyway, as that court scene is still a bit far away, I'll just say for now, thanks for the reviews and hope you enjoy! **

Chapter Five

Enjolras and Marguerite had watched helplessly, from the protection of the large oak trees, as Le Cabuc and the National Guards marched Monsieur Combeferre away.

He let them bind his hands without the slightest resistance, and when they kicked him forward, he wiped the dust calmly from his pantaloons and stood up without complaint. Indeed, his very eyes seemed to strike the guards as those of a saint, patiently awaiting his condemnation and then, his freedom. Those who saw this felt ashamed, and one went so far as to say, "I do my duty, Monsieur," in such a pleading voice that it seemed as though he were the culprit and Combeferre the judge.

The accused simply nodded his head solemnly and went on, but Claquesous laughed and kicked him like a dog, saying, "Ah, behold the saint! We shall find your friend too, dog!"

"Combeferre!" cried Margot when they had gone and it was safe to speak openly. "What are we to do?"

"Exactly what Combeferre told us. We'll go to Paris and find Eponine and your brother. And then we'll clear up this misunderstanding."

That is what they had done—gone down to Paris. They had been climbing down from the carriage when little Azelma, hurrying down the street, crashed into Enjolras.

After the stars had disappeared, the man blinked and said in surprise: "Eponine!"

It was not Eponine, of course. But the slender young girl who stood boldly before him looked so like her that Enjolras thought perhaps the stars circling around his dizzy head were not gone after all.

"Eponine?" he said again.

"No, Monsieur," returned the girl, suspicion mingled in her curious voice. "Is your name Enjolras?"

The young man looked even more startled. "Yes, that is my name. Who is asking?"

"I know where Eponine is," was the short reply.

Mystified, Margot and Enjolras exchanged glances and looked on as the girl turned from them and began walking away, motioning to them to follow. Perhaps it was the harmless impression the strange girl radiated; or perhaps it was the frank honesty in her face that reminded Enjolras and Marguerite of Eponine. One way or the other, they followed her, and little Azelma led them faithfully on.

…

Eponine had spent an entire day in that dark alley. Morning passed away as quickly as the sparkling dew before the hot sun, but no sun warmed Eponine's stiff, cold limbs—for the towering walls surrounding her on both sides blocked out the light and cast a great shadow over her shivering body. Then midday and afternoon hours dissolved into a shadowy night. It made no difference to Eponine. She had spent an entire day in the darkness.

What misfortune! Could it be possible that her miserable past life had come back to haunt her? Surely she was dreaming! Her father and the Inspector had long gone to the prison, to oversee M. Combeferre, who had arrived in Paris that afternoon. They had left her, cold, exhausted, and famished.

But then, what fortune too! For now she could wrestle openly against the ropes that held her. Gnaw! Bite! Tear! She ended her unsuccessful struggle with a despairing sigh. Too weak from hunger and fatigue, Eponine closed her eyes and dreamed.

"'_Ponine! Where are you?" _

_With a laugh, she was gone, fleeing from his outstretched hands and leaping just in time before his fingers closed, catching the empty air. "Can't catch me, Monsieur! Can't catch a ghost!" _

_He collapsed on the ground, laughing at his own failure. Though he could not perceive her clearly—he was still blind then—he saw a white blur (was it her gown?), and he heard her happy voice. _

_Eponine stopped short, gasping for air only to lose it with laughter. With fair cheeks flushed, dark hair disheveled, and eyes sparkling, she reached out and touched his hand. "Come, Enjolras! Don't give up now!" _

_His smile disappeared and a melancholy sigh escaped from his lips. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to ruin this for you. But I can't, Eponine. I cannot see." _

"_Take my hand then, Monsieur." _

"_You should give up on me, Eponine," he rejoined coldly, despairing at the stubborn cheerfulness of his companion, "Would you really choose to spend the rest of your life with a blind man? Think of all that you will lose." _

"_Those losses are but trivial, considering what I shall gain. But I will not have you tell me what to do!" replied Eponine, but inside she trembled and pain shot through her heart—even more painful, she thought, then when a ball had pierced her shoulder. "If I were blind, would you give up on me?" she demanded suddenly. _

"_No," returned the other without hesitation. _

_A bright smile spread across her face and she took his hand, pulling him to his feet. "One step at a time, Monsieur," she whispered into his ear, and stepping backwards slowly, she guided him with her voice and her hands. He followed, his feet shuffling forward hesitantly._

"_Then you won't leave me?" _

"_Never." _

_And with every step, he planted his feet more firmly upon the solid ground; with every step he grew bolder. She held his hand and led him out of his darkness, so that even his blind eyes were no barricade to his path._

Eponine opened her eyes, remembering.

"Enjolras," she whispered to herself. Her lifeless fingers, pale and numb, slowly closed into fists; her dark eyes sparked with determination. Slowly, weakly, she lifted herself from the ground and struggled once more against her binds, ignoring the pain and weariness.

Enjolras would come for her. He would lead her out of this nightmare, just as she had done once, a long time ago, for him.

And suddenly the ropes loosened—was she dreaming? She wriggled and squirmed and twisted—could she dare hope? Yes! They were loosening! Slowly she worked; and, like an answered prayer, the ropes fell away and she stood up joyfully.

"Took you long enough," came a voice in the dark.

Eponine stiffened.

"Don't have a clue what that Thenardier was thinking, tying you up with nothing but ropes. Ah, nothing can hold Eponine Thenardier for long!"

"Yes, not even you, 'Parnasse," replied the girl boldly.

A flash of anger passed by like the threat of a storm, but like a storm from the East, it passed by swiftly, and Montparnasse was once again the handsome youth, ever mocking, cool as the wind. "Ah, but surely you missed good old 'Parnasse! It's been, how long? Four, five months? To think that you never thought to send news of your wedding! What am I to call you? Madame Enjolras?" He tilted his head to laugh, his Grecian profile outlined in the darkness.

As Eponine watched him warily, disgust manifest in her hostile gaze, she noticed the stark contrast between Montparnasse and Enjolras. Enjolras was the angel, Phoebus Apollo, whose eye shone with Light and whose lips formed Truth. But 'Parnasse—that ghostly youth who left trails of silent laughter in the dark!—was a child of the night, born into the shadows, whose father was Vice and whose mother, Death.

"How droll it sounds!" he continued, stepping calmly forward. He watched with a strange display of both delight and fascination as she backed away like a magnet being repelled by his movement. "Madame Enjolras." He contorted his features and stuck out his tongue in mockery as he said it, only to throw back his head again and laugh like a merry child.

A child he did indeed seem to Eponine—a child who cannot be swayed, who cannot be denied his sweet candy.

"You'd have called me that," replied the girl bitterly, "if I hadn't been taken on the very hour of my wedding!"

"But surely you must be grateful for what I've done for you."

"Montparnasse did something for me? Do tell!"

"Why, I've prevented a marriage between a Thenardier and the man guilty of Inspector Javert's death!"

Eponine gasped, as if bucket of cold water had suddenly been poured down over her. She struggled to compose herself, found she could not. She could only think: "Enjolras. Enjolras… guilty? Enjolras, murderer?" It wasn't possible! But then, Enjolras had killed before… No! She wouldn't let 'Parnasse sway her.

"Enjolras was blind then! He couldn't have done it!" she cried.

"Ah yes. But then…" His voice dropped lower, and when he spoke next, it seemed as though he was speaking to himself: "We shall see." He took a step forward, smiling all the while. "Dearest Eponine," he crooned, and the girl shivered at the sound of her own name, "Dear little 'Ponine, I'm sure you know Thenardier's given you to me."

"Never!" spat Eponine, recoiling as he stretched out a white glove towards her. She summoned her strength and courage, hoping it would be enough to outrun this foul beast.

"You can't run from me, Eponine. A Thenardier can't run from her life."

"My past!" said she passionately, "Nothing but my past! It's over, Montparnasse. You and my father's work and my past are _history!_"

Eponine did not wait to hear his reply; gathering her strength, she made a dart towards the end of the dark alley, but Montparnasse was there, laughter in his eyes and an arrogant smile on his lips.

"If I didn't no better, I'd have thought your lover was a priest!" said the youth with a scowl. "What does he tell you, hmm? Your sins are forgiven? Did he tell you his righteous God has suddenly decided to turn His back on all your crimes and simply accept you? Ha! Ha! This is rich! You thought you could have a taste of this fruit, this fruit forbidden to all sinners!"

Bold and invulnerable though she was, Eponine felt hot tears surge from her eyes, blurring her clear vision. This dark thing called Doubt had found a crack through her firm barricade—she couldn't take this anymore. All she wanted was to run, run away from this dark, hateful thing!

And so she did. Catching Montparnasse off guard, she ran, slipping past him like a fish avoids nets. Down the long alley she raced, hair blown back by the wind, heart racing, ears straining to hear the pitter-patter of the person chasing her. The sound of footsteps behind her drew near; she felt her legs would soon give in; then a little hole in the brick wall—was it a sewer opening?—caught her eye; with a last desperate effort, she threw herself into the opening, sliding between two steel bars that halted the path of the pursuer. Eponine had only time to thank God that she had been able to fit through the cavity before her strength gave in and she fell into a deep, weary sleep.

…

There lived an old man—a doctor named Beauvais. A kind and gentle heart beat tenderly beneath this aged doctor's breast. He had seen Napoleon; he had fought battles written upon the yellow pages of France's history. He had killed men, yet he would not willingly hurt a fly.

It was this unfortunate man who found himself wandering around the streets on the night of the June Rebellion. It was also this unfortunate man who found himself suddenly taken possession of by Inspector Gervais (otherwise known as Le Squelette) and interrogated as a witness.

Did he see a revolutionary that ill-fated hour? Yes, he did. How did he know the man was a revolutionary? Shot in the right shoulder and limping. Would he testify under oath to that? Against whom? He was solemnly instructed to answer the question. Yes, he would swear to that. Did he find a letter signed, M.C.? Yes, yes he did. Where did he find the letter? At the foot of the Seine.

Thus poor Monsieur Beauvais bore witness to the fact that a revolutionary was seen wandering the streets of Paris during the uprising; that this revolutionary could possibly—and most likely, said the Inspector—have written the letter; and that this revolutionary could possibly—and most likely, said the Inspector—have murdered the late Inspector Javert.

Had the old doctor been asked the question: "Do you wish to testify against this man?", Monsieur Beauvais would have said, in a trembling yet emphatic voice, "No. Most assuredly I do not."

That evening, while Monsieur Enjolras was rushing to the dark alley and Eponine was fleeing from the vengeful Montparnasse, Inspector Gervais and Monsieur Thenardier brought the old doctor to testify against the accused.

"Is this the man you saw that night?" said the Inspector. Behind the bars, Monsieur Combeferre raised his proud, solemn eyes towards the witness and stood upright, bearing no marks of guilt upon his being.

"No," rejoined the other, relieved.

"No?"

"No."

His companion clenched his jaws in agitation, unable to grasp this new fact. "Are you positive?"

"This is not the man, Monsieur Inspector. Though it was dark, I saw the man's face clearly. This is not he."

The three men departed from the jail, leaving Monsieur Combeferre with the same despair in which he had arrived—yet they left Hope hovering in the prison too.

Later, in his own office, Inspector Gervais struggled to recover from this first surprise. "He is not the man?" he muttered, "That is very well. We will find this sinner, this man stained with the blood of an officer!" As he murmured on to himself, he sorted out the papers that lay scattered upon his desk, searching and looking and scratching off names with the tip of his quill:

"Prouvaire. Dead. Joly. Dead. And not a _C. _Need a Monsieur _C. _Combeferre—not guilty! C. C… _Courfeyrac. _Hum! Dead! But…"

The Inspector stormed to the door, opened it, and roared to his assistant: "Monsieur Courfeyrac! Quickly man! Was there a Monsieur Courfeyrac among the bodies we buried!?"

Poor Monsieur Guppy, startled out of his wits, whisked out of the room and rushed back in a split-second, panting and pale. And then came his anxious, breathless reply: "No Monsieur. There was no found body of that name."


	6. Found!

**A/N: Halloo! I will, will, _will _post another chapter for the Sister's Statue, but I was so busy the past few days (ahem undergoing great stress having to pack for family vacation, not to mention my laptop kept freezing ahem). When I come back, I _will _update! Anyway, thanks for the reviews, and another special thanks to JudyB for editing my story! Hope you all enjoy!**

Chapter Six

Eponine awoke to the crackling of a fire. Fire—in a sewer? The ground she lay on was neither cold nor hard nor smooth, but soft and comfortable like a mattress. She blinked, opening her eyes and looking around in wonder. Blazing from a hollow space in the brick wall was a little fire that warmed her and filled the little, round room with a cheerful light. Besides the mattress, there stood a solitary wooden chair, rather strange looking as there were no other chairs and no table to accompany it. Scraps of faded paper lay stacked on its hard seat. These were the only objects to furnish the bare room.

It was, in short, an ugly hovel turned into a simple home. But home of whom?

It didn't take long to find out. A figure, hunched over the fire and stoking it with a long poker, turned round, letting the shadows fall from his face. A gasp escaped the girl's lips; at first she did not recognized the person: the grey, gaunt cheeks; the sad, hollow eyes; the unkempt ocean of brown curls—each feature seemed so unfamiliar. The face looking intently into hers was that of a wild, wretched man. But then… she blinked, unbelieving.

"Courfeyrac?" said she hesitantly.

The man's hollow eyes lit up with recognition. He murmured, as though to himself, "Could it be? Mademoiselle Eponine of the barricade? But no! You are dead! You are all dead. Perhaps I am dreaming. Or perhaps the little mam'selle has come to give me my supper, and she looks like Eponine."

Eponine laughed, ignoring his strange mutters. Her heart felt full with joy; in light of her recent ordeals, she had found one little candle—Courfeyrac was alive! But at the joyful sound that rippled from her mouth into the quiet atmosphere, the man—startled—recoiled a little further into his corner. When had he last heard such laughter? When had he last perceived such joy?

He choked: "Then it is you?"

"Yes, Monsieur! It is me!"

"Then… you are really here? In this room? A living thing?"

"Yes, Monsieur! Living, breathing! And Grantaire, Enjolras… Combeferre… they are alive too! We escaped, Courfeyrac. The four of us escaped!"

"No," moaned the wretched man, shaking his head in denial. He laughed, but it sounded so different from Eponine's, so very harsh and hysterical. "You perhaps are alive, but my Friends are not. They died, you know. In an uprising they died." He paused, letting the mournful words linger in the still air before continuing,

"But the little mam'selle found me and nursed me back to life. So here I sit, unhappy man that I am! But the little mam'selle is good. I will not blame her. She takes care of me, yes! For that, I am grateful. But for everything else…"

"The little mam'selle?"

"Why, yes. I do not know her name. She comes and she goes, quiet and mysterious! I have never seen her face, but she talks to me. And listening, I enjoy her lovely voice, so quiet and pleasing! I have come to love my little mam'selle."

Eponine did not know what to make of this strange reply. Had poor Courfeyrac fallen into madness? She would not think it. Shaking her head, her eye wandered and fell upon something lying on the floor, hidden in the shadows. Three empty bottles waded in a pool of liquor. Not madness, no. He had fallen into something worse—into a poison, a soothing anesthetic, a temporary reliever of that which many suffered: pain, loss, and anguish.

"Courfeyrac, they are still alive!" she cried. If the truth in calm and soothing words would not persuade him, the truth—wrathful and chastising—would force him! "Look at you! When Enjolras and the rest see you, what will they think?"

"They will not think anything," replied the other with an inane smile, "They're dead!"

"They are not dead, Monsieur! They are very much alive! Enjolras is coming for me, and then you will see. Then you will see."

Courfeyrac laughed, and his next words, insulting as they were, must not be judged, for the man was suffering inside: "Enjolras is coming for you? Ah, so now you will tell me that our leader has fallen in love with a gamine? Ha! Ha! Now I know you are truly mad, mademoiselle! Now I know!"

As his words struck Eponine, she paled with anger. This insult drove deep into her very soul, for she herself doubted Enjolras' love. After all, why would such a great man love her, a filthy beggar and thief? Why would such a godly man love a god-forsaken sinner?! Anger welled up inside her and, walking up to him and raising her hand, she slapped poor Courfeyrac across the face.

Ears ringing, Courfeyrac's eyes bulged and he gulped. Perhaps, however, that slap had cleared his hazy mind. The young man stroked his smarting cheek, and when he looked at Eponine, the girl saw with some satisfaction the expression of wonder and clarity.

He spoke quietly: "Then they really are alive."

"Yes Monsieur. They really are alive."

His next reaction surprised Eponine even more than the shocking blows she had dealt him. She had expected amazement, a great spasm of joy; or perhaps she was waiting for him to lose the pride that kept every man's eye dry, waiting for him to burst into bittersweet tears. But he did neither one nor the other. Monsieur Courfeyrac astonished his companion by simply sighing, and without betraying the least bit of emotion, reply, "Well then."

"Well then!? How... Monsieur, how can you say that? You've just found out your friends are still living, and all you say is 'Well then'? Monsieur, move! Do something! Laugh! Weep! No, come with me! Come outside and we will find Enjolras and... and then all will be right! You'll see! Come, Monsieur." As she was saying this, she had moved slowly forward until she stood in front of the unfeeling insurgent. As his eyes watched her warily, she lifted her hand and laid it gently upon his arm. "Can you remember, Courfeyrac?" said the girl quietly, "Can you remember happiness?"

"No," returned the other bitterly, "No, I will not listen to you, mademoiselle. Come, I will share some of my wisdom, some of the many things I have learned in this accursed hole! I have learned that life is a silly little flower, swaying in the wind, thinking itself to be so pretty and so wonderful, never knowing that soon winter will come. Yes, it stands in the field, full of pleasure and love and happiness, but soon its petals will fall! Pleasure, love, happiness: those petals will wilt and fall!

"What do I need out there that I do not have here?" he continued, a mad beast who cannot stop, "At least my writings will live on, yes. And I have enough food to fill my belly, and then when I am old and wilted, I will die! But what do I need out there? Money? Ah, no, that cannot be! I used to be a wealthy young man! But look at me now. Did that wealth help me? All it gave me was greed and desire for more! When I faced the barricades... no, when I _face_ the Barricades where life and death meet, will wealth be of any use? And what of love? What of that silly, shallow thing that we beasts so enjoy? It is nothing but an idea! I fell in love with many women. But what wisdom did those loves give me? No wisdom! No value! What else is out there? Ah, yes! Friendship! Oh, my friends will die, or I will die, and what then? What then?!"

"You speak like the blind drunkard, the cynic, the nihilist!" cried Eponine, "Have you morphed into a Grantaire, then?"

"Grantaire saw truths that we blind fools never saw!"

"No," rejoined the girl furiously, "Or didn't you know that now Grantaire has changed? that he has grown wiser? that he is no longer a drunkard and cynic?" She dropped her voice, spoke quietly, "Listen now, Courfeyrac. Listen now to what I have to say.

"You despair the meaningless of money, love, and friendship. But you blame the wrong things. What do you need, Monsieur? You need faith. Faith that money can be valued, that money can be used for good, not just evil. You need faith that love can be a deeper river, a river that flows so far as to die, to lay one's life, for another. Such love is that which gives us hope and purpose. Such love is to be cherished. You also need faith that friendship can last longer than life itself, that when you die, your friend will say, 'Ah, there is a man whose life I will remember, whose friendship I will value forever.'"

She stopped then, weary and despairing. Eponine wanted nothing more than to see Enjolras smiling down at her, to hear his voice say, "Well done, Eponine", and to feel safe in his protective embrace.

Courfeyrac, silent, looked down at his ragged pantaloons. He spoke gravely, but a little smile brightened his sad face, "You have changed, Eponine. I am now forced to believe Enjolras and the others are alive, for no one but Enjolras could speak like that. No one but Enjolras could have learned and taught these things. Mademoiselle, forgive me. I now see why Enjolras would love a woman like you."

…

"Where have you led us? She isn't here!"

Azelma trembled, seized with a terror of both the furious man who stood before her and the question of where Eponine had gone. Had her father taken her? Had Montparnasse stolen her? She answered in a faltering voice, "Monsieur, I… I do not know."

"You don't know!? Then you have led us into a dark, deserted alley. For what reason? There are many possibilites. It can't be to find 'Ponine, because she isn't here!"

"Monsieur, please! She was here! My father—"

"Father?"

Azelma looked at her bare feet, mumbling quietly, "Thenardier."

"You're Eponine's sister!" cried Marguerite. Turning to Enjolras, she pleaded, "Eponine told me all about her family, her sister and brothers. She loves them, Enjolras. This girl—'Ponine's sister—wouldn't lead us into an ambush."

Enjolras sighed. He looked weary, he felt weary—would he ever find Eponine? She seemed to be floating farther and farther away from his grasp. Maybe she really did die. Maybe he was dreaming. "She was here? You're sure of that?"

Azelma nodded.

The three of them stood there, helpless, unsure of what to do next. Finally, Marguerite spoke: "It will be dark soon. Is… is your name Azelma?"

The girl gave a shy nod.

"Do you have any place where we could stay, mademoiselle?"

"I do, ma'am. And I'll bring you there. But I'm no mademoiselle."

Margot smiled and even Enjolras' tired face brightened, for the little Azelma seemed like a miniature version of Eponine. Unknowingly, Eponine's young sister was renewing the courage in both Enjolras and Marguerite.

Eponine was still alive. She had to be.

Enjolras nodded: "Lead on then."

…

"Come, Courfeyrac!" cried Eponine cheerfully, hurrying back to the grated opening from whence she had come. "We'll find them!"

Courfeyrac smiled softly. "Of course, mademoiselle, but ah... there _is_ a door. Pardon me, but I don't think I could fit through that."

Eponine blushed and hurried towards the little wooden door that now stood so obviously in the brick wall near the wooden chair. Hope already growing, she opened the door, skipped out of the room, looked, saw, burst into tears, and rushed into Enjolras' arms.

**Yay, finally! Whew, it took quite a while. I couldn't bear to post another chapter with Enjolras and 'Ponine still separated. Anyhoo, hope you enjoyed! **


	7. Estrangement

**Hey everybody! Much thanks for the reviews! I'm sorry I took quite a while to update. Wish I had an excuse, but the only explanation I can offer is I've had a very unhealthy obsession with bicycles (both the machine and the brand), monopoly deal, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the piano (don't ask), and the never-ending beauty of watercolour. Anyway, yep, there's my explanation. But don't worry. I've gotten over my lazy-ish-ness, so expect more quickly updated chappies to come! Oh yeah, and hope you enjoy! :D**

Chapter Seven

Seeing Enjolras was already enough to make weak Courfeyrac faint. Men have had visions of angels appearing before them, with golden halos and starry eyes; some have even witnessed the emergence of a Man thought to be forever dead. Courfeyrac felt as though he were subject to such a vision.

But the very sight of Enjolras holding a young woman in his arms, embracing her without the least sign of discomfort and letting a few joyful tears slip past unashamedly—this was too much for Courfeyrac. He didn't know what to feel. Should he weep bitterly and realize that the old days were gone forever? Or should he weep tears of joy, realizing that his companions still lived?

He approached doubtfully. "Enjolras?"

Enjolras turned abruptly, remembering the three other people in the room, and the expression on his face changed. His eyes widened in astonishment and the great love and relief that shown from his bright eye and laughing lips disappeared. All that was left was a shade of red resting on his forehead. It was as if the marble statue had suddenly evened the cracks in his smooth, unbreakable physique—yet he could not hide the stupefaction written on his face.

"C-Courfeyrac?" Suddenly he broke into laughter that rang loud and clear in the little room. "Courfeyrac! Thank God, you're alive! But that can't be possible! We would have found out by now. How did you escape?"

Meanwhile Courfeyrac was finding it difficult to believe that Enjolras was laughing, especially at so grave a moment as this. But he thought the better of it—some men are quick to make up their minds, and Courfeyrac swiftly resolved to put aside the past and accept this improved Enjolras without a fight.

"Hmm? Well, I'm wondering at the betterment of your disposition," replied Courfeyrac, rather breathlessly. "It can't be Eponine's doing, can it? Because if it is, then mademoiselle, I am forever in your debt and will sit by your side like a tireless lapdog, ready to render you any service!"

Eponine, smiling, felt too happy to answer. The feel of Enjolras' hand lightly pressing hers lifted the heavy burdens that she had long carried; and she found she could not, for even the slightest moment, look away from his face.

Enjolras smiled slightly: "Judging by the quick recovery of your honeyed tongue, Monsieur, I am forced to believe you really are Courfeyrac. The ladies of Paris have wept many tears for you. But, ah, this mademoiselle is already taken, so we'll have none of that wooing for her."

Courfeyrac's quick eyes saw through Enjolras' light, mocking words and found there a grave warning. He saw it in the quiet manner by which Enjolras stood only a little closer to the oblivious Eponine, and he saw it in the murky darkness of those blue eyes. And seeing this jealousy that had once belonged only to the Patria, Courfeyrac couldn't help but tease,

"Your jealousy, Enjolras, only goes to show how serious an opponent you consider me to be… which I am."

"Serious, yes," replied Enjolras, "Seriously foolish an opponent… as you are. But I think you are avoiding my question, Courfeyrac. How did you escape the barricades?"

Eponine laughed, "There are two possibilities for why he's avoiding that question, Monsieur. Either he is too humble to speak of his great strength and courage to defy death, or he is too proud to speak of the great humility he has had to suffer."

A small squeak escaped Courfeyrac's lips, as though he had been dealt a blow to the stomach.

"Well Courfeyrac?"

The man looked this way and that way, saw the devilish grin on the girl's face, and, regaining his lovable charm, replied: "Well! If you really must know, I didn't escape." He walked to the chair and sat down, stretching his limbs in such a way that Enjolras and Eponine knew they were in for a long, agonizing, flowery tale—and immediately Enjolras wished he hadn't asked.

"Yes, I didn't escape. I lay there, cold and shivering among the… forever asleep. And as I lay there, cold and shivering, I heard the footsteps of a Guard. Instantly I knew (cold and shivering as I lay there) that my doom had come, that those blasted soldiers had come to collect my dead body… or else, to ensure that my body was dead. I forced my eyes shut, calmed my shuddering body, and whispered a last prayer. You see, I was prepared to meet death. I was… I was happy that… happy that I didn't have to suffer… anymore…"

Courfeyrac's voice dropped lower and lower until he was no longer speaking. A mournful, absent expression glowed in his eyes, and Eponine felt a sudden stab of pity for this weak, despairing man. She understood now why he had withdrawn from the world—just like Enjolras did, a long time ago, blind and helpless and hopeless.

"Courfeyrac," murmured a voice. It was Azelma. Everyone in the room had forgotten the young girl. She stood by his side, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, murmuring patiently, "Courfeyrac, wake up."

"What? Oh! Yes, I… I was dreaming again. Where… where was I? Ah, yes," a warm smile suddenly shone on Courfeyrac's face, and he looked up at Azelma, "She found me. It wasn't a Guard. It wasn't that Inspector. It was She. She dragged me out of that dark, accursed place. She brought me here, took care of me."

He spoke as though to himself. When he realized that Eponine was grinning, Margot was smiling, and even Enjolras's lips looked suspicious, Courfeyrac's forehead flushed a furious red.

"Well," said he, "there's my story! So now you know. The mighty Courfeyrac was in fact helpless. He couldn't save himself. He was weak and humiliated. But he loves her all the more for it."

Suddenly Eponine thought Courfeyrac's voice had gone deeper, more solemn. And then before her eyes, his very face changed. The dark, unkempt hair turned into an ocean of golden waves; the skin turned smooth and pale; the eyes grey and glassy; and then Enjolras was sitting before her, looking tired and helpless, angry at his weakness, humiliated, blind.

She called out to him, and he heard her voice. And then he answered, saying, "The mighty Apollo was helpless. He couldn't save himself. But he loved her all the more for it.

"Because in his weakness, she gave him strength. In his humility, she gave him pride. In his darkness, she gave him light."

And then Enjolras changed once more, and Courfeyrac was sitting there, smiling, blushing, a Cupid who had at last fallen in love.

Eponine glanced quickly at Enjolras, but his brooding eyes remained on Courfeyrac, as if he too was having a dream.

She still didn't understand. If anything, she was more confused. How could _she_ have helped him? How could _she_ have been his light? Eponine Thenardier, nothing but the filth of the street, stained by the darkness of her past life. How could Enjolras be proud of her? What could she have given him, the perfect Apollo? Even stricken with blindness, he didn't need anything but a guiding lamp. She didn't deserve that title. She didn't deserve him.

These thoughts continued to bog her down, filling her with misery. And another burden weighed heavily on her mind. Montparnasse had accused Enjolras of being the murderer of Inspector Javert. It couldn't be true! But what if the police came after him? What could she do then?

Eponine shook her head, trying to clear her mind. The movement caused Enjolras to look down at her, a worried expression on his face. His eyes pleaded quietly with her: _tell me what's wrong, Eponine. _

But she shook her head stubbornly. She would not tell him how unworthy she felt. And she would not tell him that Paris believed him guilty of the murder of Inspector Javert. He didn't need this burden.

Quietly, Eponine Thenardier resolved to keep her mouth shut.

…

Enjolras' heart had not felt such a tumult of emotions for months. During the days after the barricade, he had experienced guilt, painful memories, newfound joy. Now, those emotions were coming back again. The re-appearance of Le Cabuc, the murderer, now haunted his dreams. Finding Courfeyrac and Eponine brought such an aching joy that he thought his chest would burst.

But the look on Eponine's face—what did it mean? She seemed uneasy. Only a while ago, when they had at last reunited, she'd seemed so relieved, so joyful. But now, she avoided his gaze. Now, she refused to explain.

Did she doubt him? Perhaps she found out that Le Cabuc still lived. Perhaps she now held nothing but disdain for him. Enjolras remembered well the expression on her face when she saw him kill Claquesous.

"Courfeyrac," said he at last, emerging from his quiet brooding, "You know how glad we all are to see you alive. But now you must learn why we are here. Inspector Javert is dead. Does that mean anything to you?"

Courfeyrac shrugged. "Inspector Javert? That traitor Gavroche revealed? My condolences to his family, if the man had any. But further than that, I cannot say. What would his death mean to me?"

"Eponine has told you, I'm sure, that Combeferre too is alive. Only this morning he was taken, accused of murdering the late Inspector."

"But how is that possible?"

Enjolras and a miserable Margot could offer no reply, but to their surprise, Eponine spoke up, "Enjolras and Marguerite do not know, but I do. I spoke with the newly assigned Inspector, Monsieur Gervais. They… they found a letter about… about freedom, connecting it with a rebel killing the Inspector and thus liberating himself and all the others involved in the uprising… I don't know how, but it was signed _M.C._ _Monsieur Combeferre_, he said. And he also told me that there was more evidence. A witness saw a revolutionary staggering around at night, shot in the right shoulder."

Courfeyrac's face paled. He cried wildly, "Where!? Where did the crime take place!?"

"The Seine."

He choked, "I… I was there that night… looking for someone."

"Who?" demanded Enjolras.

Courfeyrac raised his eyes pitifully, moaned: "Monsieur, I cannot remember. I was delirious. My mind is still in a haze when I try to recall… Perhaps… perhaps I _did_ murder the Inspector."

"No!" cried Azelma, seizing his face with cold, trembling hands, "You couldn't have! You were lookin' for me, weren't you! Say you were lookin' for me, for anyone but the Inspector! Say it!"

Courfeyrac dropped his head despairingly. "Forgive me—all of you. I cannot remember."

"What do we know then?" murmured Enjolras gravely.

Marguerite was sobbing, too weary to speak. Courfeyrac moaned as Azelma tried uselessly to argue for his sake, and so Eponine was left to answer. She met Enjolras' gaze reluctantly,

"Combeferre, accused of murder. Courfeyrac, possible suspect. And…" she hesitated, "That's all."

Enjolras' eyes narrowed, "You were going to say something. What are you hiding, Eponine?"

"Nothing," she replied angrily.

"Tell me!"

But she was saved a reply. The wooden door banged open, Inspector Gervais appeared with a smiling Montparnasse beside him, and a great voice boomed out:

"M. Courfeyrac, Monsieur Etienne Enjolras, and Eponine Thenardier, you are to come peaceably or by force to the Grand Chatelet, where you will stand trial as suspects of Inspector Javert's murder."

**Oh dear, this can't be good. o_O**


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